Hello, Mrs Davis
by BohoJules
Summary: Roger and Mark have been roommates for six years now, six years of the Cohen family calling every other day to check on their boy. But what happens when Roger’s mother calls? Short drabble


**Title**: Hello, Mrs. Davis

**Author**: BohoJules

**Rating**: T

**Genre**: General/Humor

**Summary**: Roger and Mark have been roommates for six years now, six years of the Cohen family calling every other day to check on their boy. But what happens when Roger's mother calls?

**Notes**: Just some short, fun drabble, because Boho Days depressed even me. Words in _italics _are people on the phone.

Hello, Mrs. Davis

-ring ring-

The phone echoed in the sparsely furnished loft, far too early in the inhabitants' opinion, and Roger's clock read six am. "Damn," he groaned, rolling over and throwing his arm over his head to muffle the noise. He was tired, cold, mildly hung-over, and in no mood to answer the phone to Mrs. Cohen; the only people to call this early on a Saturday were parents. "Mark!" his voice was weak, croaky with the cold and the inertia of just waking. He coughed, rolled onto his back, and tried again. "**Mark**!"

-ring ring-

Through the paper-thin walls of their studio loft, more of a cold Bohemian hell, really, Roger could hear stirring, a rustling of blankets, and a sleepy grunt. "What?" Roger could even hear the filmmaker reaching for his glasses – or maybe he simply _knew _that was what his friend was up to. It was a set schedule with Mark: wake up, find glasses, make tea.

-ring-

Roger grinned; he knew that man far too well. "Phone... probably your folks calling to try and bring their boy home."

-ring-

"Or to console me for being broke." The voice sounded closer; Mark was out of bed. The footsteps echoing over the creaky floor placed him near the bedroom door.

-ring-

"Or freezing."

-ring-

"Or that my girlfriend switched teams." Mark was now in the doorway, trudging towards the phone. Even though he was only seconds out of bed, Mark was fully dressed, missing only his scarf and shoes; the loft didn't have much, anything, in the way of heat, and Mark usually ran cold. He yawned, ran a hand back through is hair, in no hurry for the regular nagging of his overprotective mother or the sarcastic support of a humoring father.

-ring ri-

"Hello?" Mark sounded cranky – better him than Roger, and the rock star curled up beneath his meager blankets, ready for another few hours of sleep.

"_Hello?_"

It was not Mark's mother, but another woman, perhaps the same age. Her accent was a bit different than the locals, and sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. "This is Mark speaking... can I help you?"

"_Mark?... Oh, of course! The filmmaker. Can I talk to Roger?_"

"Roger?" Mark looked back; saw the cocoon of blankets and grouchy rock star. "He's asleep, can I have him call you back?" _For your own good,_ he thought. Roger was not a morning person.

"_Oh,_" she sounded disappointed. "_Just have him call home when he has time. I guess he's just been busy._"

Silence. Then a wicked grin crossed his face, a twinkle in his blue eyes. He turned towards the messy bedroom, projecting his voice to reach the ears he knew were not fully asleep. "Hello, Mrs. Davis." The blankets flew in every direction, loud cursing and thuds following. Roger was up in a matter of seconds, searching for his jeans. "It's amazing that we've never met before." His grin widened as Roger struggled with a sweater in his haste to reach the phone.

"_Roger talks about you all the time. Thank you for taking care of him._"

Roger held his hand out. "Phone."

Mark waved him off impatiently. "Not a problem, Mrs. Davis." He stressed her name, just to rub it in Roger's face: _ha ha, this time it's YOUR mom on the phone._ In the six years he had shared this loft with Roger, he had never once heard the man even speak of home, much less have home come calling. This was amusing, to say the least. Mrs. Davis sounded so normal, so suburbanite mom, that it was almost unbelievable that her son had become a Bohemian rocker.

"Mark," Roger growled. "Give me the phone."

"_I'm very proud of both of you, living this Bohemian life._" She sounded amused, and Mark knew she had heard her son's voice.

Roger snapped, finally, snatching the phone out of his friend's hands and shoving him aside. "Hi, Mom. I meant to call you, but something came up..."

Half an hour went by, wherein Mark wandered back to read in his bedroom.

Roger strolled in sometime around eight am, plopping down on the edge of Mark's bed as he sometimes did. "Her name's Meredith."

"Hmm?" Mark looked up from his novel.

"My mom. Her name's Meredith. I usually call her every Saturday, while you're out filming, but last week I was at Life Support. She got worried." That was his way: don't share until you are caught, then offer this personal tidbit as a way of explanation. Then it was back to sarcastic, taciturn Roger who never shared his feelings or his past, focusing instead on music or friends. Then he was gone, retreating back towards his guitar.

Mark waited until he was past the couch before speaking. "Hey Rog? Your mom sounds nice."

He turned around, offering one of those rare, true smiles of his. "Yeah, she is."

Fin


End file.
